Critical and Historical Essays
fatigue is considered. And, to carry on our theory, this very
question of fatigue still further develops rhythm. The strong
beat always coming on one foot, and the light beat on the other,
would soon tire the dancer; therefore some way must be found
to make the strong beat alternate from one foot to the other.
The simplest, and in fact almost the only way to do this,
is to insert an additional short beat before the light beat.
This gives us [- ' -] or [4. 8 4], the dactyl in poetry.
We have, moreover, here discovered the beginning of form, and
have begun to group our musical tones in measures and phrases;
for our second dactyl is slightly different from the first,
because the right foot begins the first and the left foot the
second. We have two measures [(4. 8 4 | 4. 8 4)]
[(- ' - | - ' -)]
and one phrase, for after the second measure the right foot
will again have the beat and will begin another phrase of two
measures.
Carry this theory still further, and we shall make new
discoveries. If we dance in the open air, unless we would dance
over the horizon, we must turn somewhere; and if we have but a
small space in which to dance, the turns must come sooner and
oftener. Even if we danced in a circle we should need to reverse
the motion occasionally, in order to avoid giddiness; and this
would measure off our phrases into periods and sections.
Thus we see music dividing into two classes, one purely
emotional, the other sensuous; the one arising from the language
of heroes, the other from the swaying of the body and the patter
of feet. To both of these elements, if we may call them so,
metre and melody brought their power; to declamation, metre
brought its potent vitality; to the dance, melody added its soft
charm and lulling rhyme. The intellectual in music, namely,
rhythm and declamation, thus joined forces, as did the purely
sensuous elements, melody and metre (dance). At the first glance
it would seem as if the dance with its rhythms contradicted the
theory of rhythm as being one of the two vital factors in music;
but when we consider the fact that dance-rhythms are merely
regular pulsations (once commenced they pulsate regularly to
the end, without break or change), and when we consider that
just this unbroken regularity is the very antithesis of what
we mean by rhythm, the purely sensuous nature of the dance is
manifest. Strauss was the first to recognize this defect in
the waltz, and he remedied it, so far as it lay within human
skill, by a marvellous use of counter-rhythms, thus infusing
into the dance a simulation of intellectuality.
The weaving together of these elements into one art-fabric has
been the ideal of all poets from Homer to Wagner. The Greeks
idealized their dances; that is to say, they made their dances
fit their declamation. In the last two centuries, and especially
in the middle of the nineteenth, we have danced our highest
flights of impassioned speech. For what is the symphony, sonata,
etc., but a remnant of the dance form? The choric dances of
Stesichorus and Pindar came strangely near our modern forms,
but it was because the form fitted the poem. In our modern
days, we too often, Procrustes-like, make our ideas to fit the
forms. We put our guest, the poetic thought, that comes to us
like a homing bird from out the mystery of the blue sky--we
put this confiding stranger straightway into that iron bed,
the "sonata form," or perhaps even the third rondo form,
for we have quite an assortment. Should the idea survive
and grow too large for the bed, and if we have learned to
love it too much to cut off its feet and thus _make_ it fit
(as did that old robber of Attica), why we run the risk of
having some critic wise in his theoretical knowledge, say,
as was and is said of Chopin, "He is weak in sonata form!"
There are two ways of looking at music: first, as impassioned
speech, the nearest psychologically-complete utterance of
emotion known to man; second, as the dance, comprising as it
does all that appeals to our nature. And there is much that is
lovely in this idea of nature--for do not the seasons dance,
and is it not in that ancient measure we have already spoken of,
the trochaic? Long Winter comes with heavy foot, and Spring is
the light-footed. Again, Summer is long, and Autumn short and
cheery; and so our phrase begins again and again. We all know
with what periodicity everything in nature dances, and how the
smallest flower is a marvel of recurring rhymes and rhythms,
with perfume for a melody. How Shakespeare's Beatrice charms us
when she says, "There a star danced, and under that was I born."
And yet man is not part of Nature. Even in the depths of the
primeval forest, that poor savage, whom we found listening
fearfully to the sound of his drum, knew better. Mankind lives
in isolation, and Nature is a thing for him to conquer. For
Nature is a thing that exists, while man _thinks_. Nature is
that which passively lives while man actively wills. It is the
strain of Nature in man that gave him the dance, and it is his
godlike fight against Nature that gave him impassioned speech;
beauty of form and motion on one side, all that is divine in man
on the other; on one side materialism, on the other idealism.
We have traced the origin of the drum, pipe, and the voice in
music. It still remains for us to speak of the lyre and the
lute, the ancestors of our modern stringed instruments. The
relative antiquity of the lyre and the lute as compared with
the harp has been much discussed, the main contention against
the lyre being that it is a more artificial instrument than
the harp; the harp was played with the fingers alone, while the
lyre was played with a plectrum (a small piece of metal, wood,
or ivory). Perhaps it would be safer to take the lute as the
earliest form of the stringed instrument, for, from the very
first, we find two species of instruments with strings, one
played with the fingers, the prototype of our modern harps,
banjos, guitars, etc., the other played with the plectrum,
the ancestor of all our modern stringed instruments played by
means of bows and hammers, such as violins, pianos, etc.
However this may be, one thing is certain, the possession of
these instruments implies already a considerable measure of
culture, for they were not haphazard things. They were made for
a purpose, were invented to fill a gap in the ever-increasing
needs of expression. In Homer we find a description of the
making of a lyre by Hermes, how this making of a lyre from the
shell of a tortoise that happened to pass before the entrance to
the grotto of his mother, Maia, was his first exploit; and that
he made it to accompany his song in praise of his father Zeus.
We must accept this explanation of the origin of the lyre,
namely, that it was deliberately invented to accompany the
voice. For the lyre in its primitive state was never a solo
instrument; the tone was weak and its powers of expression
were exceedingly limited. On the other hand, it furnished an
excellent background for the voice and, which was still more
to the point, the singer could accompany himself. The drum
had too vague a pitch, and the flute or pipe necessitated
another performer, besides having too much similarity of tone
to the voice to give sufficient contrast. Granted then that the
lyre was invented to accompany the voice, and without wasting
time with surmises as to whether the first idea of stringed
instruments was received from the twanging of a bowstring
or the finding of a tortoise shell with the half-dessicated
tendons of the animal still stretching across it, let us find
when the instrument was seemingly first used.
That the lyre and lute are of Asiatic origin is generally
conceded, and even in comparatively modern times, Asia seems to
be the home of its descendants. The Tartars have been called
the troubadours of Asia--and of Asia in the widest sense of
the word--penetrating into the heart of the Caucasus on the
west and reaching through the country eastward to the shores of
the Yellow Sea. Marco Polo, the celebrated Venetian traveller,
and M. Huc, a French missionary to China and Thibet, as well
as Spencer, Atkinson, and many others, speak of the wandering
bards of Asia. Marco Polo's account of how Jenghiz Kahn, the
great Mongol conqueror, sent an expedition composed entirely of
minstrels against Mien, a city of 30,000 inhabitants, has often
been quoted to show what an abundance--or perhaps superfluity
would be the better word--of musicians he had at his court.
That the lyre could not be of Greek origin is proved by the fact
that no root has been discovered in the language for _lyra_,
although there are many special names for varieties of the
instrument. Leaving aside the question of the geographical
origin of the instrument, we may say, broadly, that wherever
we find a nation with even the smallest approach to a history,
there we shall find bards singing of the exploits of heroes,
and always to the accompaniment of the lyre or the lute. For at
last, by means of these instruments, impassioned speech was able
to lift itself permanently above the level of everyday life,
and its lofty song could dispense with the soft, sensuous
lull of the flute. And we shall see later how these bards
became seers, and how even our very angels received harps,
so closely did the instrument become associated with what I
have called impassioned speech, which, in other words, is the
highest expression of what we consider godlike in man.
III
THE MUSIC OF THE HEBREWS AND THE HINDUS
The music of the Hebrews presents one of the most interesting
subjects in musical history, although it has an unfortunate
defect in common with so many kindred subjects, namely,
that the most learned dissertation must invariably end with
a question mark. When we read in Josephus that Solomon had
200,000 singers, 40,000 harpers, 40,000 sistrum players, and
200,000 trumpeters, we simply do not believe it. Then too
there is lack of unanimity in the matter of the essential
facts. One authority, describing the _machol_, says it is
a stringed instrument resembling a modern viola; another
describes it as a wind instrument somewhat like a bagpipe;
still another says it is a metal ring with a bell attachment
like an Egyptian sistrum; and finally an equally respected
authority claims that the _machol_ was not an instrument at
all, but a dance. Similarly the _maanim_ has been described
as a trumpet, a kind of rattle box with metal clappers, and
we even have a full account in which it figures as a violin.
The temple songs which we know have evidently been much
changed by surrounding influences, just as in modern synagogues
the architecture has not held fast to ancient Hebrew models
but has been greatly influenced by different countries and
peoples. David may be considered the founder of Hebrew music,
and his reign has been well called an "idyllic episode in the
otherwise rather grim history of Israel."
Of the instruments named in the Scriptures, that called the
harp in our English translation was probably the _kinnor_,
a kind of lyre played by means of a plectrum, which was a
small piece of metal, wood, or bone. The psaltery or _nebel_
(which was of course derived from the Egyptian _nabla_, just
as the _kinnor_ probably was in some mysterious manner derived
from the Chinese _kin_) was a kind of dulcimer or zither, an
oblong box with strings which were struck by small hammers. The
timbrel corresponds to our modern tambourine. The _schofar_
and _keren_ were horns. The former was the well-known ram's horn
which is still blown on the occasion of the Jewish New Year.
In the Talmud mention is made of an organ consisting of ten